Working Title
by piperholmes
Summary: "Ah, right," she smiled, her finger wagging at him. "The Chauffeur who ran off with the Earl's daughter." Her pleasant demeanor didn't change at all, her eyes dancing, but Tom couldn't measure her authenticity. As much as he hated it, at least the Dowager gave no scruples about her objections. Martha Levinson left him confused.


**Working Title**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Quite unexpectedly I had a few hours free this morning (a true rarity) and rather than clean the bathtub (as I should have) I decided some "me" time sounded infinitely more wonderful and wrote this. I know the assumption is that Martha will support Tom and Sybil but I've read some comments that lead me to believe it won't be quite that simple. Just me being silly and speculating. As always, unbeta'd.**

* * *

"So tell me Tom, may I call you Tom? What's it like being back at your old stomping grounds?" Martha Levinson threw at him suddenly from her perch on the red sofa.

Tom could only blink at her for a moment, being so completely caught off guard. No one in the house seemed at all interested in speaking of Tom's former life at Downton. He had the impression that any mention of his previous employment was taboo.

"You did work here, right? As a footman or butler or something?" She pressed, and Branson saw Carson stiffen, mostly likely indignantly surely finding the idea insulting.

Clearing his throat he corrected, "The chauffer Ma'am."

"Ah, right," she smiled, her finger wagging at him. "The Chauffer who ran off with the Earl's daughter." Her pleasant demeanor didn't change at all, her eyes dancing, but Tom couldn't measure her authenticity. As much as he hated it, at least the Dowager gave no scruples about her objections. Martha Levinson left him confused. At first glance she appeared flighty and whimsical, but there was a steel buried underneath, a hard, cutting gaze that would appear at times in her eyes.

Sat near him on an identical red couch, he felt Sybil shift.

"Grandmama," she said simply, but Tom could hear the warning, the plea.

Martha shrugged innocently. "I'm just wanting to get to know him."

Tom had only just met the woman, but he was a perceptive man. He nearly groaned with frustration, the now familiar tension that had become his constant companion upon his return to Downton was back in the room. After the disaster of last night's dinner he had hoped for a bit more of a reprieve.

"That worked out quite well for you, marrying into the Crawley family."

It was Tom's turn to stiffen. "I'm not sure what you mean Ma'am."

"I think you do," she replied sharply. "Cora tells me you're a journalist," she continued not waiting for a response, clearly uninhibited by the seeming collective holding of breath.

"I am Ma'am," Tom answered, mindful of the apprehension running silently rampant in the minds of his in-laws. Clearly no one wanted a repeat of the breakdown from the previous evening.

"And what do you write about?"

At this Lord Grantham could not stop his eyes flying condescendingly heavenward causing the muscles in Branson's jaw to tighten. However, the quiet presence of his wife reminded him of the regret that came with allowing his anger to get the better of him, and the promise he had made to be less sensitive and more forgiving. Almost mindlessly he reached out for her, resting his hand atop hers. Without hesitation she returned his touch, sandwiching his hand between hers.

This subtle moment of support was enough to keep his pride in check and steadily he answered, "I write about Ireland's struggles to become a free state."

Martha blinked at him, a smirk on her face. "I understand wanting to kick the British out."

Her comment was received with silence, and even Tom wasn't sure how to respond.

The awkward pause was summarily disbanded as Martha let out a hearty laugh. "If a bunch of backwoods colonist can do it, I'm sure Ireland will succeed."

Tom tried to keep his face neutral but his eyes widened slightly. "Yes…Ma'am. I certainly hope so."

The expected explosion at such declarations never came, a testament to everyone's willingness to avoid a repeat of confrontations. There was plenty of shifting in seats and avoiding eye contact and suppressed sighs, but thankfully no one commented further.

The smile on Martha's face seemed to grow.

"Cora also tells me she worries because you don't earn a great deal as a journalist."

The reaction to this statement was much less contained. He felt Sybil's hand tighten on his and an uncomfortable wave of worry rolled through his stomach.

"Mother!" Cora chastised breathlessly.

"What?" Martha cried. "You English, so worried about propriety. Am I to standby and sip tea while my granddaughter and future great-grand child starve?"

All pretense of civility fled Tom. His face hardened but he knew the effect was undermined by the reddening of his neck and ears. Sybil's grip on his hand was nearing painful.

Similarly a bit of the glee was gone from Martha's face, replaced with a seriousness that had been lurking all along.

"I'm a wealthy woman you know," she pointed out. Her implications clear. "Perhaps you'd be interested in speaking with me privately."

Tom's heart began to race at the insult.

"Grandmama, that is enough," Sybil spoke, her quiet voice like a bomb not a plea this time, but a command. Normally Tom delighted in moments when Lady Sybil would appear, but at this moment he couldn't look at her as embarrassment burned at the heart of him.

A deep weariness pervaded his body, a sadness born of the knowledge that it would forever come down to money. The urge to give up, accept their pity and spite, mocked him. A gentle tug on his hand brought his eyes to hers, and he saw no condemnation, no accusation, just love.

Squaring his shoulders he looked to his wealthy American grandmother-in-law. "No thank you Ma'am. It may come as a surprise to you but I too refuse to standby and watch my wife and child starve. We are poor, it's true. We aren't where I would prefer to be financially, but thankfully we're not that bad yet. And I assure you I will do everything in my power, make whatever sacrifices have to be made, to keep food in their bellies and a roof over their heads."

Martha's gaze narrowed. "And if for all your efforts you still couldn't provide for them, what would you do? Would you come crawling to her parents? To me? Would your pride be more important to you?"

Humiliation choked him. This stranger was asking him to live out the scenario that he fought everyday to keep hidden, the scenario that lurked in the back of his mind, kept him up at night, haunted him. She wanted him to live the dark threat of poverty and regret.

He felt all eyes of the room on him.

Pulling his hand from her warmth, he stood. Quietly, hesitantly he answered, "Nothing matters more to me than Sybil, and our child. I can think of no hardship too great to bear for them."

He straightened his jacket, and stared for a moment at his worn, scuffed shoes, his mortification complete. "If there is nothing else, I think perhaps I need a bit of fresh air, excuse me please."

He walked to the door only turning to shake his head when he heard Sybil call his name. He needed to be alone.

Sybil stood as he left the room, giving her grandmother an accusatory glare. She had tried to keep the peace between her two families, tried to be understanding to both parties, but feeling the weight of responsibility. Her disappointment pricked at her.

"Is no one willing to give him a chance?" she asked, her hopes of her grandmother's support dashed.

As Sybil moved to follow her husband, Martha's voice stopped her.

"I just did my dear."

* * *

Tom had walked, and walked, finding himself outside the garage. He was angry. The kind of angry that left his muscles screaming for release. He wanted to shout, curse, smash, anything to rid his body of the hot searing anger pouring through his veins. Seeing no real option he simply picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them one at a time, as hard as he could, listening as they pinged off the side of the garage.

"That's a bizarre past time," a voice said, surprising him.

Whirling around to face Martha, he dropped the rocks, and just stared.

He watched silently as she bent down to grab a few bits of gravel, then stood, mimicking his actions as she threw them, with quiet a bit less force.

"Hmm," she grunted, "I can see the appeal."

Dusting her hands off she faced him, giving no heed to his comfort or desires she started speaking. "My husband was born the poor son of a blacksmith. He built his empire stone by stone and earned his money the hard way. I'm a shrewd woman at times Tom, and when it comes to my family I can be at my worst."

Still Tom said nothing, not that it would have mattered.

"You and Sybil chose a hard path, but just because it's hard doesn't mean you can't do it."

"What?" Tom replied, brought short by her comment.

"A man who is willing to do anything to provide for his family, even swallow his pride, is a man who will succeed. My husband had to make a lot of hard choices that put him in a lot of difficult situations. It made him a fighter. I can see you're a fighter Tom. Don't let those sticks in the mud stop you. Not to mention you have one of the best allies a man could hope for in Sybil. That girl breathes fire for you. Don't fail her."

Tom nodded, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Listen, I don't care where you were born. All I ask is you be a man I can respect. And if you and Sybil need anything you remember you're family now. I always help my family." She smiled at him, a genuine smile this time. "Oh, I do ask one more thing. I can only imagine the bee Violet has in her bonnet over this whole thing."

She looked at Tom expectantly. His expression communicated her accuracy of her assessment of the situation.

"Good," she laughed, "keep 'em dancing Tom. Don't back down. I like to believe my granddaughter chose well, and I look forward to rubbing it their uppity faces, so don't disappoint."

Feeling a bit of the weight lift from his shoulders, Tom allowed a small chuckle to escape.

"Now, go find your wife, she's quite worried about you." And with a wink she added, "And tell her you think the name Martha sounds perfect for a girl."

* * *

**I wanted to work in the juxtaposition of Mary asking Martha for money to save Downton and how I think Tom would rather eat knives than ask for money when they barely have enough to survive on but couldn't find a way to organically work it into this story. Maybe I'll have time to write another one (Is that a pig I saw fly passed my window?).**

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
